


your mess is mine

by withkissesfour



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withkissesfour/pseuds/withkissesfour
Summary: Coffee cup. Scarf. Case file. Recipe for spaghetti on a post-it note stuck to the computer. Put it in the bin. Put it in the drawer. Forget about her. Try to forget about her. She’s gone. She’s gone. She left you.Set after Bernie leaves. One day, one week, and one month. Serena figures out what she wants.





	1. the night of.

_the night of._

 

She kisses a woman (soft lips, sweet perfume, red hair) in the back corridor of a dingy bar, the night Bernie leaves.

 _Come over tonight_ , Raf had texted, kind eyes peering at her through the frosted glass of the door, his phone in his hands and pity (sympathy, exhaustion) heavy on his shoulders, earlier in the afternoon. She had pretended to work for hours, fumbled a pen between her fingers and read the same two lines from the same report over and over, eyes fixed on the page, trained away from the desk opposite. There is an explosion of her things - Bernie's things - strewn across the light wood. There is a coffee cup, a case file, a scarf; shrapnel from her hasty goodbye, and Serena had spent half of the afternoon hoping she'd slink back through the door to clean up. 

 ( _Sorry for the mess_ , she would say, fringe askew, bottom lip between her teeth, and Serena would stand, grin, push the haphazard blonde strands from in front of her eyes. 

                  _I don't mind your mess._ ) 

But she doesn't. No one does. Raf hadn't dared to come closer, but had hovered outside the office instead, had stood guard for the better part of the shift - shuffling nosy porters and blustering interns away so that she could wallow in peace (behind the drawn blinds, in the dim light). It won't stop the gossip, she knows, but she is grateful all the same, and forced a smile in his direction when her phone buzzed.  _Come over tonight. We'll make you dinner._

It'd probably be for the best. He could probably use the help, and she could probably use the company. But she catches his eye and shakes her head, sends back a  _might have a quiet drink or five instead._  She feels a little self-destructive, she thinks.Her body bristles with anger, prickles with humiliation,  _aches_ with missing her; and she wants to fall apart somewhere unfamiliar, away from prying eyes.

So she waits until the shift change, and escapes out a side door; head down, braced against the cold rain, against the amused stares. So she blasts the radio, and drives to the other side of town, collapses at the sticky wooden counter of the first bar she can find. So she orders the most expensive shiraz from the woman behind the bar, tears at a napkin, tears pricking at her eyes; until the woman pushes another glass towards her.

‘You look fucking miserable’, she mutters, conspiratorial. ‘Wanna talk about it?’

‘Oh, that’s okay. I’m fine feeling sorry for myself.’

‘Bad day?’

‘You have no idea.’

‘Well,’ she says, leaning on the counter, strands of red hair falling from her ponytail, ‘I bet you a glass mine was worse’.

Her mouth is stretched in a grin, her tongue between her teeth and her hand thrust towards Serena. She sits up a little, watches her flick the tea towel over her shoulder, tuck her hair behind her ears; and thinks she might be flirting a little; thinks she might flirt a little back.

     (Maybe this is what she wants, she thinks. Maybe she wants women. This woman.  _Serena Campbell, lesbian._ )

She drains the glass of its last dregs of wine and pushes it back towards her, close enough so their fingers brush against the base, bottom lip between her teeth, grasps the woman’s hand in hers.  _You’re on._

It’s a first for her, seducing by commiseration, but the story doesn’t sound so bad, between mouthfuls of peanuts, between sips of wine; and a fresh glass is poured, on the house ( _shit, you win_ ) before the woman leans over the counter, close, tells her she finishes in five. Her perfume makes her feel a little lightheaded, and the wine makes her feel a little brave (reckless); so when she unties her apron, slinks into the back corridors of the bar, a glance thrown over her shoulder, Serena doesn’t even think about it.

She doesn’t think about it when the woman catches her hand, pulls her towards a back corridor, music from the kitchen blaring in their ears; or when she presses her against the off-white wall (scuffed, paint-chipping), kisses her (quick, soft, once, twice). 

It’s only when she mumbles her name against her neck, nipping at the spot just below her ear and covering it with  _Sarah, by the way,_ that Serena’s head stops spinning, her eyes flutter open, her feet find the ground again, and she shrugs away.

Her head pounds, suddenly. Her stomach twists in knots as the woman looks up at her, through a curtain of hair, from beneath her eyelashes, and panic rises in her throat.

‘You okay?’

 ‘I have to go’, she croaks, tugging herself away, pulling her coat back up around her shoulders, putting the corridor between them. She scratches at her head, bites at her lip, offers the woman a quick smile – breath heavy. She won't tell her she feels like she's cheating. It sounds _ridiculous._

‘I’m sorry. It’s been a terrible day’, she offers, scurries down the corridor, to the nearest exit.

She shuffles her feet, puffs a warm breath (a barrage of _fuckfuckfuck_ ) into the cold night air, as she touches the spot, just below her ear, where the bruise blossoms. She won’t say she’s been unfaithful. It’s stupid. There’s no one to be faithful to. 

Instead she hails a cab, presses her head against the cold backseat window, watches the fare tick higher and higher as it crawls towards the middle of the city and _she’s gone, she’s left you_ beats at her skull, aches in the bones of her body until she’s sober; until she’s home.

Instead she comes in late to work the next day, mouth dry, feet heavy; tightening her scarf around her neck to hide the bruise. _She’s gone_ , is the reminder in every corridor, in huddled groups that scurry to work when she stares back. She steels herself against her name, Bernie’s name, thrown around in whispers, in giggles, in pitying stares – like it’s something tawdry; tainted. She braces herself against the collection, the mess – still strewn across Bernie’s desk; begins the slow process of cleaning up. Coffee cup. Scarf. Case file. Recipe for spaghetti ( _your favourite, right?_ ) on a post-it note stuck to the computer. Put it in the bin. Put it in the drawer. Forget about her. _Try_ to forget about her. She’s gone. She’s _gone._ She left you.


	2. the week after.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She will give herself five minutes to fall apart.
> 
> Set the week after Bernie leaves, over the course of a day.

_three in the morning._

 

The bright screen casts a dull glow over her bedroom, and her fingers hover; tremble over the phone ( _I miss you, I miss you, come back to me x_ ).

She's not stupid. She knows she shouldn't send it, knows she won't. She can’t  _bear_ to imagine Bernie’s face if she did – sleep in her eyes, night shirt askew on her shoulders, cheeks reddening as she reads the message, punctuated with a kiss. It's exactly the sort of declaration that would scare her, that made her run in the first place. She knows she should just go to sleep.

    ( _You know you should just go to sleep,_ she would say, if she were here. She would mumble against her shoulder, when Serena moans about the alarm, set to go off in a couple of hours. Her bra would be flung over the bedside table, her legs tangled up in the sheets, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on the soft skin near Serena’s hip, the light tiger-striped stretch marks on her stomach.

            _You do a pretty good job of keeping me up, soldier_ , Serena would grin, a soft kiss to her temple, a playful nip to a spot below her ear, if she were here.)

Every restless muscle in her body aches for missing her, every idiotic fiber of her being wants to press send, wants her back. The late (early) hour makes her feel a little irresponsible, a little adolescent – like it wouldn’t, couldn’t be _so_ bad if her phone fumbled between her cold and tired hands, if her finger slipped across the too bright screen, if she sent it. The morning is _hours_ away (three hours away); and she could deal with it then. It wouldn’t be so bad.

But she’s not stupid. She takes a deep breath instead, pulls the night air into her lungs, gathers every ounce of self-restraint she has, tucks the phone deep beneath the pile of cushions arranged next to her, lets the middle-of-the-night dark swallow the room again. She tucks her knees closer to her chest instead, runs a hand over her tired eyes, through her wayward hair. _She doesn’t miss you,_ she reminds herself, instead, mumbles it, whispers it, tangles it up in her tongue until she believes it. _She doesn’t miss you._

            (She’s wrong, of course. The harsh red light of Bernie’s bedside clock reads five am, her night shirt askew on her shoulder, a mess of hair over her face, and she’s barely slept at all. Bernie couldn’t miss her more).

 

_-_

 

_eight forty-five in the morning._

 

She thinks she might hate Bernie. 

     (She's wrong, of course. She could never hate her. She couldn't love her more.)

But she keeps thinking about the way Bernie left, about the way she pushed her away, about how she pulled herself from her grasp with militant indifference – told her she didn’t know what she wanted; told her to sort her life out. Bernie turned her whole life upside down, made her into some kind of lovesick creature - the kind that would beg her to stay, that would offer to go with her, or meet her halfway. Bernie made her miserable. 

The tears come hot and fast, make her nose run, make her eyes sting.

She slides further down in the car seat, so the man sauntering nearby - a cigarette precarious between his fingers - doesn't see her; and eyes the radio clock. She will give herself until eight-fifty.

She knows this feeling of old, knows this sort of fatigue, the kind of exhaustion that hangs limp in her hair, heavy in the dark underneath her eyes; the anger that comes when the tears won't stop. She knows she can't do this to herself again. She  _refuses_. So she drags herself out of bed that morning, lets the crisp air fill her body as she scurries outside to collect the morning paper. So she drinks coffee. Too much coffee. Holds the warm mug between her hands and greets Jason with a smile as he comes, barefoot, into the kitchen; eating breakfast in sleepy silence, and she chews half-heartedly at the toast he makes her. So she blasts the radio, drives a little too fast, tells herself not cry ( _don’t you dare cry_ ) when she pulls into the parking space, sees the empty one across the way. And when the tears prick at her eyes, when the sobs wrack her body; she eyes the radio clock. She will give herself five minutes to fall apart. 

_-_

 

_eight-fifty in the morning_

She moves her hands over her eyes, wipes away the remaining tears, pats at her cheeks so they don’t blotch. She breathes (in and out, in and out, _in and out_ ) until her chest stops heaving, until her head stops spinning, pulling herself back together at the seams.

And then she drags herself out of the car. She trudges – aching feet, head heavy – into the hospital; her own kind of soldier. She will do it every day.

 

-

 

_one in the afternoon._

 

‘I’ve got a funny story for you’, she smiles, perched on the side of Fletch’s bed.

She is sick of it by lunchtime.

She knows it will pass, knows the hospital news cycle is daily, knows collective attention spans for baseless (not so baseless) gossip is short. There will be something new tomorrow, and people will move on. She will move on.

But the pitying stares fray at her nerves, the breathy, hysterical recounting of her public pleas the week before make her feel ridiculous.  She can hear herself snapping at interns, her bedside manner give way to irritation, as the stories get more wild and the narrative gets out of hand. Bernie is not the villain of this story. She is not the damsel. It was not a fling, not experimentation.

The truth of it is really so much less interesting than all that, and all the more precious to her. The truth of it is her hand in her hair, when she kissed her the first time, fumbling through the cropped, dark locks, around underneath her ear, near the collar of the theatre scrubs; the way she held her hand to help her up, when her pager beeps, when they break apart; the way she looked at her when she leans forward, tucks a blonde strand behind her ear, runs her thumb over her upturned lips, well kissed. The truth of it is the way her chest tightens now, every time, all scrubbed up in the corner of the theatre.

The truth of it is bad timing, terrible timing; and too much, too soon. Bernie was desperate not to hurt her, desperate not to get hurt herself, and did the only thing she knew to do. They will be fine, she thinks. They will be alright, she hopes. That is the truth of it.

And she tells Fletch as much, perched on the side of his bed, loud enough for the unit to hear, the privacy curtain thrown back. She watches as his eyes grow wide, his smile rises and falls, as his mouth opens, shuts (opens, shuts) like he wants to ask her _everything._ Instead he waits, and clears his throat.

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘Well. Because it’s the truth’, she says. ‘I want the right rumour to be spread’.

‘I wouldn’t - ’    

‘I know. I want you to.’

Bodies hover nearby, feigning busywork, ears straining to hear the conversation; and he lowers his voice, his hand reaching across the light blue sheets to grab hers.

‘Are you okay?’

She shrugs, pats his hand, moves to stand. She feels lighter.

 

-

 

_six-thirty at night._

The drive to the bar seems much longer this time, _is_ much longer – in peak hour traffic, yawns she cannot stifle punctuating the silence, a restless beat drummed out on the steering wheel. The sun has set by the time she shuffles into a booth, tears at a napkin, sips half-heartedly at her drink; by the time the woman ( _Sarah, by the way_ ) comes through the door.

She has her apron scrunched in one hand, her other flung in the air and waving to the bartender, and her hair is out, bounces around her shoulders, is tucked behind her ear when she catches Serena’s eyes. She’s gorgeous. It makes her heart jump a little in her throat, thinking about women like this. It feels new and curious, and old and familiar, like an unearthed secret, like something that has been there the whole time – something to figure out.

She’s _gorgeous,_ Serena thinks. But she is not what she wants.

            ( _I want you_ , she would whisper, against Bernie’s ear, fingers tangled in the belt loops at her waist, close together in the booth. _I want you_ , she would mumble, against Bernie’s neck, pressing her up against the wall of the back corridor, music from the kitchen blaring in their ears.)

‘Are you okay?’, she offers, now, moving to sit next to Serena. She cocks her head, shuffles over a bit, smiles. She will be fine.  

 

-

 

_three in the morning._

The bright screen casts a dull glow over her bedroom, and her finger hovers over the phone ( _I miss you, I miss you, come back to me_ x) _._  


	3. one month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Bernie Wolfe.
> 
> Missed call).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For unrequitedexistence, a newfound berena pal :)

_(Bernie Wolfe_

_Missed Call)_

-

She will not budge. She will not move an inch. She will  _not_ call her.

She still feels a little breathless, every now and then, without her. There is still an ache in her chest, a twist in her stomach, a persistent beat ( _beat beat_ ) in the quiet spaces of her body that crescendo, every now and then, without warning. It happens sometimes, with coffee in the morning. Sometimes with a glass of wine at night. Sometimes at work, in the car, in their office, on the ward, her name mumbled, giggled ( _still_ ) in corridors; and it knocks the air out of her body, and she never knew it could hurt this much, missing a person, or that it doesn’t go away. She thinks about calling her every day. 

    (She will  _not_ call her).

She knows she can’t keep doing this to herself. The rage prickles at her skin, simmers underneath the surface, muddled with exhaustion and embarrassment, desperation, desire, misery,  _love,_  to create a person she doesn’t quite recognise, someone  _messy._ So she reminds herself not to call her, every morning, every afternoon – and reminds herself that it’s not a punishment. It’s an exercise in self-preservation. It’s bravery.

So she keeps an ocean between them (two hours, three thousand miles,  _time and space_ ) to prove Bernie wrong. She knows exactly what she wants, has known since she kissed her, lips clumsy, earnest, hands in her messy hair; but resolves to test her theory out all the same. 

 

She lets herself look.

She watches women in bars, and men in supermarkets, at the café in the morning, in the tuck shop at night. She watches the way their hips sway, when they walk towards her; the way their hands flex around the base of wine glasses, or brush her shoulder to reach past her for the milk, or tangle themselves in someone else’s hair, pressed up against the cool brick outside the warm pub; the way they smile. She watches Ric, beside her on the counter. She watches Raf, sidling past her in the corridor.

She catches the new barista looking at her, in the café in the morning, watches her flirt, flirts back as best she can, in her pre-caffeine haze. The steam from the machine plays with her hair, piled atop her head, and coffee soot covers her apron and her eyes flit from head to breast and back again, her mouth forming a nervous smile when she sees Serena watching her, the frothing milk making kissing noises in the jug between her hands. She measures her quickening pulse, the reddening of her cheeks, the width of her smile, pursed, amused, enamoured by the new barista ( _anne_ , printed on her name badge) making a double shot flat white. She counts back the times she thinks she might have fallen in love ( _lust_ ) with a woman, a scientific endeavour with a newfound perspective, punctuated by Bernie Wolfe. She wonders - as she thinks about the woman in the bar, her best friend in high school, her housemate at Harvard, the barista behind the counter, Bernie, Bernie, _Bernie -_ what it might have been like if she had figured it out at the time, if she had been brave enough.

            (Her number is scrawled beneath _double shot_ , underlined and conspicuous, and Serena won’t call it, but it makes her feel light all day – caffeinated, seductive.)

 

 

She lets herself imagine.

She lets her mind wander, in the sleepy hours of the early morning, picking at her lunch in her office, tangled up in her sheets at night, to Bernie, to life with Bernie. It hurts less the more she thinks about it, a strange sort of therapy for her lonely bones, and her body brims with _want_ instead, with _hope._

She thinks Bernie would be an early riser; thinks she would sleep lightly. The sun would only just be peeking through the curtains, the birds perched on the tree outside the window letting out their first melodious yawns, by the time Bernie stirs, kisses her bare shoulder, pads in her bare feet down the corridor and into the kitchen (she would know where she keeps the mugs, knows where she hides the brownies). She thinks she would be soft in the morning, and quiet. Her laugh would be low, would start and finish with a yawn, her unbrushed hair in curtains around her face, and Serena’s shirt flung (haphazard, half-hearted, buttons mismatched with button holes) over her frame. She would play an absent-minded tune with her short nails against Serena’s calf, the morning newspaper strewn out in sections across the sheets. She would taste like coffee when she kisses her.

She thinks Bernie would be the consummate professional, thinks it would be gorgeous to watch her work, thinks it would be fun to watch her come apart, when Serena flirts with her in the corridor, kisses her in the elevator, moves her stockinged foot up and down her calf underneath the table in the office. Bernie would shoot her a warning look, then, an attempt at annoyance swallowed by joy, her mouth stretched into a grin across her careful face, her foot nudging her back, fingers tangling in fingers when she pushes a case file across their tables, past the mess.

She would tell her how much she loves medicine, how much she loves _her_ , tying up her shoes in the empty locker room one day after surgery, their hands aching a little, their heads heavy, their brains full. She would smell like soap, like new scrubs, like _Bernie_ , when she moves close to Serena, buries her blonde head in her neck, presses a kiss to the dip above her shoulder blade.

( _I love medicine,_ she would smile. _I love you_ ).

She thinks Bernie would be good in bed. She thinks they would be good at it together. Their nimble fingers would make quick work of each other’s clothes (bra flung on the bedside table, trousers somewhere in the vicinity of the laundry basket); and what they lack in experience they would make up for in enthusiasm, in adoration. Serena’s fingers would fumble, clumsy, would knot in Bernie’s hair as she kisses a line down the valley between her breasts, the small swell of her stomach, the rise of her hipbones, the apex of her thighs. She would nip the soft skin there (once, twice, close, closer), would cover it with a kiss, with a chuckle when Serena lets out a moan, grumbles out a _get a move on soldier,_ her voice heavy with need, her hand searching for Bernie’s hand – a soft, low, lengthy _fuck_ escaping her mouth when Bernie moves against her.

She thinks about it, some nights, her hand moving beneath the sheets, beneath her pajama bottoms and her cotton underwear, leaving herself trembling, breathless. She thinks about it a lot.

 

 

She lets herself talk.

Sarah invites her out to dinner, out for drinks and she talks about it with her, over spaghetti – soft and low and close. It’s a strange way to have started a friendship, she knows, making out in a back corridor of a dingy bar, but she treasures it all the same, doesn’t regret it when she bares her soul a little, fingers playing with the cutlery, tearing up the napkins. The pronouns still get tangled in her tongue, the labels still get stuck in her throat (like learning a new language, like learning the veins of the heart) but she feels better all the same, she thinks, walking her to her car in the crisp night air; thinks she’ll give it a go.

And there’s something terrifying, something magnificent, about it, she finds – when _they_ becomes _she_ , and _their_ becomes _her;_ and she feels a little breathless over it sometimes, feels a little happy, and she's desperate to tell Bernie, but she will not tell her. She will _not_ call her. She tells the porters instead,  mumbling about it in the corridors, she tells her mother (shuffling her feet in front of her headstone), she tells the barista in the café and the women in the bars and the men in the supermarkets. She tries out _lesbian,_ casual, next to Raf, a glass of wine in her hand. She tries out _bisexual,_ in the bar, or on the phone, when her daughter calls. She fits the words around her tongue, moves them around her mouth, lets them take up residence in her body while she figures it out, while she tells anyone who will listen that she loves her, she loves her, she loves her.

     (But she will not call her).

 

So when someone catches her arm as she comes out of the operating theatre, her cap between her hands, tells her she's missed a call from Bernie Wolfe (off-hand, matter-of-fact) she contemplates ignoring it, turning her phone off, hiding it in the pile of paperwork on her desk.

And when she fumbles the warm phone between her cold hands, crouched on the bottom cement step outside, on the roof (wind in her face, fingers trembling) she thinks about not calling back. _Self-preservation, Campbell,_ she reminds herself, steels herself.

 

       ( _Bernie Wolfe._

_Missed call)._

 

Ah, fuck it.

Her heart leaps in her throat, and she tucks her knees closer into her chest, as she holds the phone to her ear; and the dial tone goes on and on and on, gives her time to think about what she's going to say, about what Bernie might want ( _I miss you, I miss you, come over here_ ), if Bernie wants her at all. 

‘Serena?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've left it open for another chapter, or a reunion thing, maybe; in case I get inspired and depending on what you guys think. I can't thank you enough for your feedback and comments, they mean the world :D


	4. tomorrow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t feel as good as she thought it might – pretending not to care.
> 
> Bernie comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I suppose this is an alternate reunion fic for those dumb kids in love. I started writing it before the most recent trailer came out so it doesn't really follow what'll happen on Tuesday, but I was desperate to write something anyway. Also, I'm sorry the wait has been so ridiculously long. And thank you, seriously, so much for all your kind comments and kudos. They mean the world! This fandom is so gorgeous.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘I thought I’d tell you, so you weren’t, um, blindsided’

The wind whips at the short locks of her hair and she grips the phone tighter, closer to her ear. _I’m coming back tomorrow,_ she had said, casual as possible, like she hadn’t made the world topsy-turvy.

The line crackles as Bernie clears her throat.

‘Is that okay?’

There is a smile that threatens to blossom, at the corner of her cracked lips. There is a _yes!_ that rises in her throat, that sits at the back of her mouth, building in pitch towards a quick and desperate affirmation. They can start again.

But the cold air, that stings her face and turns her breath into mist, makes her irritable; and their history makes her angry. She feels a little rancorous, a little cavalier.

‘Well it’s not like I have much of a choice, right?’

‘S-Serena. I -’

There is a hitch in Bernie’s voice when she says her name, her contrite tongue tripping over the syllables, and it makes Serena feel a little worse and a little better all at once. She pulls her knees closer to her chest, waits for her to continue, listens to the false starts to an explanation.

‘I never meant -’

It’s then that the pager vibrates at Serena’s side, the incessant _beep_ ( _beep, beep)_ that drags her into action, unwaveringly ill-timed. She grips the railing with her free hand and pulls herself from the step, bracing herself against the wind as she moves towards the door.

‘I have to go’, she mumbles, and hangs up, and it begins to rain as she slams the door, and doesn’t stop all day.

*

 

Her short hair (blonder now) bounces around her shoulders, and falls askew around her face as she turns, catches her eye. It’s always been unruly, wild. It’s been stuffed hastily into caps or thrown back in a hair tie or tangled in Serena’s fingers, at the back of her neck, body flush against hers.

Now is no different. The rain makes her hair frizz, and her fringe hangs (longer now) over her eyes. She tucks it nervously, unsuccessfully, behind an ear as she approaches her; and it makes the steady beat of Serena’s heart fumble a little. Her stethoscope is flung around her neck, and her badge swings from the pocket near her breast, and it’s almost as if she never left, as if nothing had happened at all. She grips a coffee in each hand, and holds one out as she nears her.

‘Double shot’, she mutters, smiles, her bottom lip worrying between her teeth, her eyes searching Serena’s face. A caffeinated peace offering, sure to succeed.

The anger that had simmered, barely contained, beneath the surface since she left had all but dissipated with the bounce of her blonde curls, the tug of her lip between her teeth, the slender fingers that grip the cup, thrust towards her. She knew she was forgiven, the moment she saw her. She knew she wanted her. It had taken every ounce of self-restraint not to fall apart then and there, in the middle of the unit, tell her she loves her against the thin cotton of her scrubs, the messy strands of hair, the corner of her mouth.

But she cannot forget Bernie’s hasty departure, or the sleepless nights, the weeks of silence; nor her own steely reserve, her courage, her pride, her talent for holding grudges. Bernie made her miserable.Instead, she decides, as she waves the coffee away with her hand, a polite _no thank you_ , that she deserves better. It’s Bernie’s turn to chase her now, she thinks, and meets her stare with a pursed smile and a steady glare – a challenge.

‘More for the jetlag, I suppose’, she laughs, strained. Bernie shuffles her feet, then, tries out a smile; but her brow furrows and she lets her arms fall to her side, takeaway cup in each hand as Serena nods.

She carefully works her expression into careless indifference, and a lightness in her gait as she walks away, and she wonders if Bernie knows her too well to buy into the charade.

*

 

It doesn’t feel as good as she thought it might – pretending not to care.

It feels great, at first. It fills her to the brim with a sense of shallow self-satisfaction, to watch Bernie flounder as Serena makes every effort to ignore her.

She makes herself a stalwart figure in their office, spreads her own things across both tables, across the line she daren’t cross in the time she was gone; watching from the corner of her eye as Bernie paces outside, glances through the frosted glass of the door at Serena, moves to come in and then backs away, jittery, unsure.

She stands next to her at a bedside consultation, arm brushing against her arm, carefully ignoring the way her own body bristles at the warmth of her skin, and her old familiar smell (coffee, perfume, sweat, neatly pressed scrubs); and watching Bernie’s hands play nervously with each other. It’s a habit she knows of old, and she cannot focus on anything but the ringing of her hands, her cropped fingernails, the scar on her right thumb that she had told her soft and low about one night, as they exchanged battle stories – scalpel injury, first year out of school. She cannot focus on anything but the way her fingers reach out towards Serena’s hand, tucked around a clipboard, and curl back into a fist again; an exercise in self-control she cannot help but admire.

She sidles past her in corridors, and talks over her in surgery, and turns heel when she catches her eye, a cigarette perched unlit between her fingers and hoodie tugged over her shoulders – ignoring the mumble of her name as plumes of hot breath escape into the cold winter air. It feels, she thinks, like just restitution, recompense for weeks and weeks of _infuriating_ silence; and she waits for Bernie to make the first move, to try to pin her down.

But when she does, when she catches her arm in an empty corridor, pulls her towards a small alcove, dark shadows underneath her eyes and wayward golden hair, falling from her ponytail, she doesn’t feel vindicated, she just feels lonely.

‘I know why you’re doing this, Serena’, she mumbles, letting her hand brush against Serena’s arm as she pulls away. ‘I get it. I just want a chance to explain’.

‘I’m not doing anything’, Serena says, low, but the pretense falters as Bernie searches her face, her eyebrows raised, and she clears her throat, bites at her lip. She can feel Bernie’s breath, and the warmth of her skin, close to her in the alcove, and her knees knocks against her knees as she leans forward, searches the corridor for prying eyes.

‘I thought leaving would be the right thing to do. I thought you needed space’, she says, tugs at her scrubs, pushes her hair behind her ear. ‘I was wrong. I was a coward – I - ’

‘Did they tell you, what they said about us?’ she bites, nodding towards the people starting to mill nearby. She turns then, meets Bernie’s gaze, her mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. ‘There were rhymes and everything – _kissed the girl and made her cry._ Fucking hilarious.’

‘Serena’, she mumbles, ‘I’m sorry’

She moves towards her then, tries to place her hand on her arm, but Serena waves her away, moves to step out from the alcove, straightens the stethoscope around her neck.

‘But I’m fine. In fact, I met someone’, she says. It’s a half-truth, calculated to hurt, and she hears Bernie’s sharp intake of breath, sees her eyes go wide. ‘Sarah, she’s gorgeous’.

‘I - ’, Bernie tries out a smile, then, but it falters, and her mouth opens and shuts, opens and shuts as Serena turns away.

‘So you know, never better’, she throws over her shoulder, quickening her pace.

But it doesn’t feel as good as she thought it might. It feels _ugly._ Tears prick at her eyes and the pain of missing her (familiar now) which had settled into a dull throb when she was three thousand miles away worsens now, with her five feet, ten feet, fifteen feet behind. Her body feels heavy, her shoulders curved in towards her chest and her hands are restless, trembling by the time she rounds the corner.

This is not what she wants. This is – this is the _opposite_ of what she wants. Her steady resolve, that they would be okay, that they would be just fine, falters now; and she thinks it might be her fault. All she wants is Bernie, and she’s pushing her away. She lets her head fall back against the corridor wall, scrunches her eyes closed against a headache, listens to Bernie try to steady her breath; her stomach twisting in knots.

*

 

The rain is beating down on the pavement in earnest by the time she leaves the hospital, begins to move towards her car; and she almost misses Bernie, hand outstretched in a vain attempt to hail a cab.

‘Let me give you a lift’, she calls over the steady _pitter patter_ of rain, the crack of thunder, watching as Bernie spins to face her, her hair plastered, soaking, to her face. ‘You’ll catch your death waiting here.’

‘I'm fine, thank you’, she answers, peering at her past her fringe and her voice cracks, wavers.

‘Please, Bernie, I was horrible – earlier. Let me make it up to you.’

Serena reaches out then, searching blindly for Bernie’s hand, feels her heart leap into her throat when Bernie takes it, fingers trembling as she tangles them in Serena’s.

‘I should be the one apologising’, she says, low, but Serena waves her contrition away with a gentle squeeze of her hand, moving closer to her as they stumble towards her car, heads bowed against the storm.

 *

 

‘I lied.’

‘About what?’

‘About Sarah, she's just a friend’, Serena says, tapping out a nervous beat on the steering wheel, in time with the wipers, batting away the rain. She can feel Bernie’s eyes on her from the passenger seat, but she cannot bear to look at her. She forces a chuckle. ‘I wanted to make you jealous. Stupid, I know.’

There is a lengthy pause then, and Serena’s cheeks grow hot, as it stretches before her – broken only by the steady rain, the far away beep of a car, the evening news on the radio. She wishes the earth would swallow her up, right there at the traffic lights.

‘I was jealous’, Bernie says, clear and sure, and when Serena turns to face her she cocks her head, offers a nod, her eyes fixed on Serena’s lips. Her fingers are tangled up in each other, clasped on the coat over her knees, and droplets of rain still hang from her cheeks, eyelashes, the soft skin between her collarbones and she watches it disappear beneath the dip of her shirt; thinking she might follow it until the car behind her beeps, beeps again, and Bernie mumbles _it's gree_ _n._

She lets out a laugh, earnest (an old, familiar sound in her lonely, lovesick mouth) when Bernie winds down the window, returns a middle finger, an expletive or two in the direction of the impatient car, which speeds past them now; her furrowed brow turning into a wide, full-faced grin when she turns back to Serena and she feels clear-headed, inordinately happy, _brave,_ for the first time in weeks.

‘You were wrong, you know.’

‘I know’, she says, quick, then takes a breath, purses her lips, quizzical. ‘What about?’

‘About me. I knew what I wanted from the start.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘ _You_ , you idiot’, she chuckles, crawling to a stop outside her block of apartments, eyeing the white-washed brick – familiar.

She’s been there for dinner, and a few too many drinks, has crashed there, has woken up (mouth like cotton wool) the morning after the night before there, with a coffee and a slice of toast and a bleary-eyed Bernie Wolfe in a nightshirt and house socks to greet her. But she gets lost now in tangled sheets and sweaty bodies, lazy mornings, and filling the cupboards with groceries, and fooling around on the old leather couch, that Bernie bought in a yard sale. She gets lost, peering through the window to the dark apartment four flights up, and almost misses Bernie mumble, gentle, low.

‘I love you.'

The engine is still running, and the car lights make hazy circles in the sheets of rain. Her seatbelt hits the side door as she pulls it off, and the radio crackles, the bare semblance of music through a haze of static. The gear stick presses into the flesh above her hip and she has to steady herself with one hand on the passenger seat as she leans over, but she doesn’t care.

All she can think about is the way Bernie looks, nose pressed against her cheek, elated, before Serena catches her grinning lips between her own. Serena’s fingers glide down her arm, over the damp material of her drying blouse, to find purchase at her waist, hand slipping underneath the fabric to trace over the warm, soft skin there; and when Bernie moans, Serena falls apart. There is a joy, unchecked, that swims in her veins, muddled with fear, exhaustion, adoration, _lust_. It fills every crevasse of her heart (every nook and cranny she knows by name) and she feels like she might burst.

And all she can think about is the way Bernie smiles – wide, breathless - when she whispers against the curve of her ear, the scar on her neck, the corner of her mouth _(I love you, I love you, I love you too)._


End file.
